


you're my end (and my beginning)

by ridethatcyclone



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 00:04:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2792525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ridethatcyclone/pseuds/ridethatcyclone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair meets his son</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> takes place immediately after [this conversation](http://youtu.be/J6eLYvbATjs) (at 1:10 or so) -- on the assumption that Kieran is Alistair's son. 
> 
> This will probably end up being a series of snapshots. I'm a sucker for these three, especially as a dysfunctional lil family. 
> 
> I'm posting this from my phone so I apologize for any formatting weirdness

“Kieran,” called Morrigan, and she felt Alistair stiffen beside her, “Come here a moment.”

“What are—“ Alistair started, but his jaw audibly clicked shut when Kieran approached. The boy smiled at Alistair, then at his mother, eyes wide and gentle.

“Yes, mother?” he asked, and Morrigan knelt slightly, bringing herself eye-level with her son. She placed her hands on his slim shoulders, mouth twitching in what could hesitantly be called a smile.

“This is Alistair,” she said, shifting to give Alistair an even look. His eyes were wide, matching Kieran’s (his _son’s_ , Maker—) and he took one shaky step forward.

“Er,” he said, quietly resisting the urge to slap himself – great first impression, Alistair, well done – “Hello.”

Kieran smiled widely. “Hullo, Alistair,” he replied, and held out his hand for Alistair to shake. Alistair blinked once, twice – had _Morrigan_ taught her son ( _their_ son) _manners_? – before he snapped to attention and shook the boy’s hand, smiling in return.

“Alistair is your father,” said Morrigan, tone disconcertingly matter-of-fact, and Alistair felt all the air rush from his lungs as Kieran blinked up at him, taking this information in.

“Oh,” said Kieran.

“Yes,” choked Alistair.

“May I go back to the garden now?” asked Kieran. Morrigan nodded, and the boy smiled and hugged her with a quick “thank you, mother!” Then, unwrapping himself from his mother, Kieran threw his arms around Alistair’s middle as well, tacking a “thank you, father!” on. By the time Alistair realized what was happening, Kieran had let go of him and run back to the garden.

“You look like a fool,” said Morrigan, tone easily flowing back into the usual derision Alistair had become used to, all those years ago, “Pick your jaw up off the ground.” Alistair’s eyes swiveled to her, insult of his own on the tip of his tongue, but the look on her face stopped him in his tracks. She smiled, barely, golden eyes twinkling at him. Quickly as the look was there, it was gone, Morrigan turning and gracefully making her exit. Alistair stayed where he was, heartbeat roaring in his ears.


	2. two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm going to be honest with you, this fic is almost entirely my "wow i'm bored in class time to write" fic.
> 
> but alistair is so much fun, i've missed him. also, for the purposes of this fic, he's not the total kicked puppy he is when you encounter him in inquisition. bc come oN
> 
> as always, you can come talk to me/send me prompts/cry with me on [tumblr](http://morriganic.tumblr.com/).

“Where _is_ our dear Warden?” asked Leliana. Alistair jumped (but most certainly did not let out a high-pitched squeal. Definitely not). He spun to face Leliana, who only smiled.

“Maker, you—where did you even come from?” Leliana said nothing, continuing to simply smile mysteriously at him. “She—She’s looking for an end to the calling, with Zev,” he continued, willing his heartbeat to return to its normal pace.

“Has she found anything?” she asked, voice sounding small.

“I don’t know,” admitted Alistair, “I hope so. Haven’t heard from them since I came to Skyhold.” Leliana frowned.

“Ah,” she said, not deigning to elaborate further on her thoughts. Alistair nodded, wondering if that was all she’d wanted. They’d never been overly close friends, during the Blight, but they’d gotten along well. She’d been close to Mahariel – that was their relation, really. They shared a best friend. Leliana’s frown twisted, her face contorting as if she’d smelled something foul. Alistair resisted the urge to sniff at himself.

“Morrigan is here,” she said finally, voice sharp.

“Yes, I saw her,” replied Alistair, “and Kieran, too. That was – that was odd. Unexpected.” He huffed a nervous laugh. Leliana snorted.

“I had never expected _her_ to be a mother, certainly,” she said, “I do wonder what man was fool enough to share her bed. What must she have said, to lure him there.” Her expression darkened further. “I wonder what she told him of her… Nature.” Alistair paled a little.

“Er,” he said, “… Oh.” Leliana’s eyes narrowed.

“What?” she asked, suspicions aroused.

“Er, it’s – me, I mean, I’m – I was the, uh, the fool, who – oh, Maker’s breath,” Alistair sighed, “Kieran’s – he’s – he’s mine. My son.” Leliana’s expression didn’t change, but the atmosphere unmistakably darkened.

“I wasn’t aware,” seethed Leliana through her teeth, voice icy, “That you’d had _feelings_ for her.”

“I didn’t,” protested Alistair, voice high. Leliana all but snarled. “I – I mean, I _don’t_.”

“Then _why_ —“

“There was a ritual, it—I thought you knew, thought Mahariel would have told you.” Leliana took a step back, eyebrows raising.

“A ritual?” she asked. Alistair scrubbed a hand over his face.

“The reason only a Grey Warden can stop the blight – it’s because it takes a sacrifice,” explained Alistair, “A Warden has to die in order to kill the Archdemon.”

“But—“ said Leliana, and then her eyes widened a fraction, “—Oh.”

“Yes,” said Alistair.

“So, Kieran…?”

“He—He has the archdemon’s soul, I think?” Alistair twisted his hands together. “To be honest, I’m a little unclear on the whole thing, but—Morrigan says he’s just… Just a normal boy. I hope she’s right.”

“Oh,” said Leliana, voice suddenly thick with emotion, “Oh, Alistair, I’m sorry.” She looked to the ground, brows furrowed. “I’ve stayed away from her – Morrigan – I was _so mad_. She just _left_ after the battle, and I was _so angry_. But, oh, Alistair. I cannot imagine how you must have felt.”

“I was alive,” said Alistair, quiet, “My best friend was alive. I – It wasn’t – I couldn’t bring myself to be mad at her. Maybe it wasn’t what I would have chosen, and yes, I’d have liked to have been –“ he let out a slow breath through his nose. “She saved us. Kept me from my son, but saved us regardless.” Leliana looked up, smiling. Her lashes glittered.

“Perhaps,” she said slowly, “I should speak with her. Thank her. It is, I think, long overdue.”

“She’s different,” Alistair replied, “Having Kieran changed her.” Leliana gently (though Alistair had no doubt she could kill him in at least twenty different ways that moment) placed her slim hands on either side of Alistair’s face.

“Do not discount your role in her change,” she said. Alistair scoffed.

“All _I_ did was – er,” he felt his face flush red, Maker _curse_ his fair complexion. Leliana laughed, delighted.

“It gladdens me to see that some things, at least, never change.”


	3. three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have literally NO plans for this fic, which strangely, makes it a really fun one to write
> 
> i'll get back to the 100 soon, i promise
> 
> (hang with me on [tumblr](http://morriganic.tumblr.com/))

The Western Approach was… Disheartening. To say the least. Alistair returned to Skyhold with Hawke, shoulders slumped. She’d not said a word to him the whole journey back – angry, he assumed, at his jumping to the defense of the Wardens. He supposed he couldn’t blame her – still, how had the Wardens fallen _so far_? He wondered, not for the first time and undoubtedly not for the last, what Mahariel would do. A Dalish elf, wholly unaccustomed to humans, and right out the gate she’d been more effective than he as a Grey Warden. For that matter, what would _Duncan_ do? The thought hurt, as it always did, and Alistair pushed it away. Sighing, he ran a hand through his haphazard hair.

“Is that blood?” Alistair started, blinking blearily at Kieran, who he was _sure_ had not been there a moment ago. The boy’s wide eyes were focused on Alistair’s armor, streaked with blood and ichor.

“Um,” said Alistair. Were children meant to know of things like blood, like war? Like Wardens so desperate, so _afraid_ , that they slaughtered their own to— _Maker_.

“Are you alright, father?” asked Kieran next, owlish eyes flickering upward to meet Alistair’s, “You look sad.” Alistair smiled at Kieran.

“You’re very perceptive, has anyone ever told you that?” asked Alistair, reaching out and mussing up Kieran’s hair. Kieran blinked, slowly raising a hand and trying to undo the damage Alistair had wrought.

“Mother says so,” replied the boy, “but I don’t know what it means. Mother says it means I’m too clever for other people, but I think she’s lying. She gets sad, too.” Alistair laughed brightly.

“Definitely perceptive,” said Alistair, “That must drive Morri – your mother up the wall.”

“Up what wall?” Kieran asked, brows furrowing. Alistair snorted, grinning.

“Let’s go find her and ask, shall we? No doubt she’s wondering where you’ve run off to.”

“She knows,” answered Kieran, “She always knows.”

“Riiiight,” said Alistair, “Because that’s not creepy.”

 

* * *

 

 

Morrigan was in the garden, where she always was. Vaguely, Alistair wondered why she preferred this part of Skyhold; he might’ve thought she’d linger someplace more solitary. He guessed it was for Kieran, for Kieran seemed wholeheartedly in love with the garden, though Alistair also suspected that Morrigan, after so long in the Orlesian court, had missed the simple pleasure of nature.

Morrigan raised a single brow at the state of Alistair. He must have made a sight, escorting her son to her, hair askew and soaked in sweat, armor drenched in gore and grime. If it were anyone but the witch of the wilds herself, Alistair might have felt self-conscious.

“Your venture into the Approach went poorly, I take it?” she asked as they drew near, not bothering to comment on her son’s reappearance. Perhaps the lad was right – she really did always know where he was.

“That would be… One way of putting it,” replied Alistair, a little grimly.

“Your fellow Wardens?” She smiled faintly at Kieran as he scurried away, sights set on a butterfly fluttering about the walls.

“The mages are being controlled by Corypheus,” said Alistair, very suddenly aware of just how blighted _weary_ he felt, “And the rest are being used as blood magic sacrifices to summon demons. _Maker_ , how did we get here?”

“Your Maker had little to do with it,” said Morrigan, tendrils of disdain poisoning her tone, “They did this to themselves.”

“Corypheus—!”

“Played a part, yes,” said Morrigan sharply, “But it would be folly to forget that the Wardens _agreed_ to this.” Alistair sighed.

“They’re scared,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face, “Maker, _I’m_ scared. The Calling, it—“ it itched, it always did, at the back of his mind. Singing, to him, singing songs of his own demise, of the deaths of everyone he held dear, “—it’s driving them to desperation.”

“And you?” asked Morrigan, tone careful, “What is it driving you to?”

“Madness, I wager,” replied Alistair before he really thought about the question. Morrigan was silent.

“It is… That severe?” she asked finally, and the hesitant concern made Alistair look up. Her eyes were elsewhere, tracking Kieran’s movements with the focus of a hawk.

“Yes,” answered Alistair, “If we don’t stop Corypheus soon…”

“The Inquisitor is capable,” said Morrigan, “And ‘twas not _so_ long ago the Grey Wardens were again on the brink of extinction.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” groused Alistair, “ _That_ was ten years ago, and Mahariel had a lot more to do with it than I did.”

“You cannot tell me you do not see the similarities,” sniffed Morrigan, “Even _you_ are not so dim-witted.”

“Ah, back to dim-witted,” Alistair rolled his eyes skyward, “I did so miss that insult.”

“A Dalish elf,” continued Morrigan, heedless of his complaints, “thrown into a situation beyond her control, or understanding – told only that she is the last hope for Thedas.” She turned, regarding him coolly. “Mahariel alone did not stop the Blight, as Lavellan alone will not stop Corypheus.”

“I’m sorry, are you – _you_ – saying the _power of friendship_ is going to save us all?” Alistair almost laughed, but he had the distinct feeling Morrigan would turn him into a toad if he did so. Morrigan sighed, pinching her brow between her fingers.

“I am _saying_ , Alistair, that assuming all the burden upon your shoulders will do you no favors.”

“Oh,” said Alistair. Morrigan hummed vaguely. “Still weird,” continued Alistair, “You giving… Motivational speeches.”

“Practical, more than motivational,” countered Morrigan, nose wrinkling.

“Sure,” said Alistair, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you care.” From across the garden, Kieran laughed brightly. Morrigan’s golden eyes followed the boy, a measure of warmth filling them.

“It would be appreciated,” she said, face carefully blank, “I have a reputation to uphold, after all.”


	4. four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back! since trespasser, i've played inquisition through twice more. whoops. plus side, my inspiration for these two is through the roof right now. i've got a decent idea where this is headed, so hopefully i'll have a couple more updates up in the coming weeks.
> 
> when i get to actual plot, the chapters may get longer. or, well, they may not. we shall see.
> 
> hope you enjoy reading as much as i enjoyed writing!

“Morrigan,” said Alistair, sounding delighted at the witch’s appearance on the stone steps of the battlements. Morrigan paused; she was unused to people sounding _delighted_ at her presence.

“Alistair,” she replied, cautious. He grinned, lifting a glass, and _ah_ , that made more sense. The faint flush high on his cheeks further evidence: the man was drunk. She raised a brow, corner of her mouth quirking. “Is there some cause for celebration I’m as yet unaware of?”

“Pffah,” Alistair grumbled, “The opposite, more like.” He squinted at his cup, frowning before taking a long swig, draining it. Morrigan hummed, taking deliberate steps over the uneven stone to Alistair’s makeshift sitting area. She lowered into a seat beside him, grimacing at the dust. Orlais had spoiled her somewhat. He refilled his glass, holding it out to her in offering. She wrinkled her nose, but took it. The liquid inside swirled golden and smelled like death. She took a drink. It tasted like death, as well. She passed it back to Alistair.

“May I inquire as to what, exactly, we are un-celebrating?” asked Morrigan. Alistair sighed, staring at the cup.

“Take your pick,” he replied, “Hole in the sky, wardens killing each other, end of the world. The Calling.”

“The Calling is still bothering you?” she asked, reaching out and taking the cup from his hands, setting it down out of reach. He didn’t seem to lament its loss.

“It never stops,” he replied, rubbing at his temple. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head hanging. Morrigan was unsure of what to say. Comfort had never been a strong suit of hers. She very nearly despised the idea that she should comfort Alistair at all, but then—perhaps, after all this time, after all they had been through, perhaps she didn’t mind nearly so much as she should have.

Hesitantly, she lay a hand on his back. She felt foolish, but he smiled at her, eyes watery, so she left it there.

“What’s it like?” she asked. He scrubbed a hand over his face.

“It’s like, an itch I can’t scratch. Like a thousand rats scratching behind my eyes. Like a song.”

“A song?”

“Not – not music, necessarily, but a song. Like a nightmare? I suppose? I can hear it, like a promise of death. Mine, and everyone else’s.” He sighed, looking for all the world he was being crushed beneath his sorrows.

“For whatever it is worth,” said Morrigan, “I am sorry. Would that I could relieve this burden…” Alistair snorted.

“If you’d told me back during the blight that in ten years, you, of all people, would be comforting me,” he said, “I would have laughed. For _days_.”

“I would have killed the fool that suggested it,” replied Morrigan dryly.

“Turned him into a toad?” asked Alistair.

“Rightly so,” she said.

“Rightly so,” he agreed.

They sat for a while, looking out over the bustling castle. Morrigan’s hand slid off of Alistair’s back. She wrung her hands, eyes dropping to stare down at her fingers. After a time, a gentle weight fell on her shoulder. She regarded Alistair, now sleeping against her, from the corner of her eye.

“Sleep then,” she murmured, “Fool.”


	5. five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry

“Alistair,” said the Inquisitor, turning to regard him with sorrowful eyes. Alistair nodded, his heart steel. It was the right choice. Hawke was a hero, no matter how much she protested the label. Alistair was, at best, a sidekick. The world needed her, not him.

But this? This he could do.

He hefted up his shield, tightened his grip on his sword.

“I’ll buy you the time,” he said, staring up at the demon, towering indomitable above them, “But you’d better run. And—Inquisitor?” The Inquisitor nodded at him, expression earnest. “Tell Morrigan—“

“I’ll tell her you were very brave,” said the Inquisitor, and Alistair laughed.

“No, don’t tell her that, she’ll never believe it,” he said, “Just tell her I was foolish. Now _run_.” The Inquisitor’s brow wrinkled, but she nodded, turning towards the rift.

Alistair gripped his sword, steeled himself, and charged.

 

* * *

 

“Morrigan.” The voice was soft, lilting, Orlesian. Leliana. Morrigan felt her blood run cold. She turned, slowly, away from the garden, away from where Kieran was playing, bathed in sunlight, and found Leliana, pale face still somehow shining in the shadows. For reasons Morrigan could not fathom (a lie, vicious and clawing – she knew the reasons, she did not _want_  them) her heart leapt into her throat. Leliana’s presence, here, could mean but one thing, and Morrigan inexplicably (lie,  _lie_ ) found herself cursing the absent, foolish, cruel Maker.

“He is dead,” the words were like sandpaper against Morrigan’s throat. Leliana’s face was unmoving, but she stepped into the light and Morrigan saw that her lashes were wet.

“Yes,” said Leliana.

She had known, in a vague sort of way, that Adamant would take a toll – she had not expected this, though. It was not that she thought him untouchable – no man was untouchable – but she had never really considered the possibility that he would be gone, and it would be of any real consequence. She had known it to be a truth: one day, Alistair would cease.

She had not expected that day would matter so to her.

“Fool,” said Morrigan, faintly. Leliana’s eyes narrowed, hardened. Her jaw clenched and were Morrigan not aware of Leliana’s exacting self-control, she would have expected to have been slapped.  Leliana stepped forward, too close for comfort, all but snarling at Morrigan.

“He is  _dead_  and still you insult him,” snapped Leliana, “You are too cruel,  _witch_.”

“Not him,” corrected Morrigan, hardly aware she’d even spoken, eyes unfocused, “I am a fool. I am a fool, a horrible, witless  _fool_.” Leliana stepped back, silent. Her fingers lightly caught Morrigan’s wrist, and if Morrigan turned away from Leliana, perhaps she might imagine –

“Watch Kieran,” said ( _pleaded_ ) Morrigan, and Leliana only nodded before Morrigan was gone, a raven in the too-blue sky. She came back to herself on the ramparts, where he had always been – ‘a tactical advantage,’ he’d said, smiling, and Morrigan had scoffed. ‘An excellent place to sleep,’ she’d sniped back. ‘Well,’ he said, and then had been quiet, staring out over the mountains. Morrigan had left him, then. Now, she wished she hadn’t. Wished she had stayed a moment longer, studied him. Already, she was forgetting his face, his voice. She clung to the sharp angles of his jaw, the curve of his lashes; even as the memories slipped through her grasp, water in her hands.

This hurt, and she had not expected it to.

Angry, she raised a hand, viciously wiping at her wet cheeks. How had he wormed his way so deep under her skin? This was not her, was not right – Kieran was all she needed, she didn’t need Alistair, didn’t  _want_ —

She didn’t need him, never would, but now, now, cheeks wet and heart hurt, she could not deny that she wanted—

She sank to the ground, back against the cold brick, and cried.

 

* * *

  

“He wanted me to tell you that he was foolish,” said the Inquisitor, voice gentle across the battlements. She sank down beside Morrigan, legs crossed beneath her. Morrigan’s eyes were long since dry. She had not cried since she was a child and she was filled with bitterness that she had been reduced to _this_.

“Did he now,” replied Morrigan, voice lacking tone.

“He didn’t want me to tell you that he was brave,” continued Lavellan, “But he saved all of us. He sacrificed himself so that we might live.”

Morrigan idly picked at a stray thread on her boot.

Lavellan sighed, standing to leave. “He was so, _so_ brave,” she finished, turning away.

“… I know,” said Morrigan. “I will… Continue my research, Inquisitor. If you give me just a few moments more.”

“Whenever you’re ready,” said the Inquisitor, and then she was gone, and Morrigan was alone.

 

* * *

  

When Morrigan returned to the garden, Leliana was singing softly, her eyes tracking Kieran’s every movement. She nodded to Morrigan as she approached, and vanished into Skyhold.

“Kieran,” called Morrigan, “Come here a moment.” Kieran approached, smiling at his mother.

“Lady Leliana is nice,” he said, “She has a beautiful voice.”

“She does,” agreed Morrigan, “Let us speak in your room.”

Once they had relocated to a setting with slightly less onlookers, she knelt down, hands on Kieran’s shoulders. “I… Do not know how to word this, I’m afraid.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Kieran, brows furrowing, “Why are you sad?” Morrigan smiled, brushing her fingers through Kieran’s hair.

“You always were too perceptive for your own good,” she murmured.

“Father says the same,” he replied, and Morrigan nearly flinched. All her life, she had perfected the art of hiding her emotions; first in the wilds, then in the Orlesian court. But in front of her child, she found it near impossible.

“Kieran, that is,” she started, swallowing thickly, “Alistair is… He is gone, Kieran.”

“Gone?” asked Kieran. His lip trembled. “You mean dead.” Morrigan’s heart lurched, breaking in two for her son.

“Yes,” she said, “He died in battle. Bravely, I am told, for whatever it is worth.”

“A hero?” asked Kieran, eyes rapidly watering.

“Yes,” said Morrigan, trying her damndest to keep her voice level, “a hero. Your father is- was a hero.” Kieran looked at his shoes, then shuffled forward to loop his arms around Morrigan, sniffling loudly.

“I don’t want him to be a hero,” he cried into her shoulder, “I want him to be _alive_.”

“I know, little man,” she whispered, rubbing her hands over his back, as if anything could help, “I’m sorry. If I could change it, I _would_.” She clutched her son to her chest, desperately reassuring him as best she knew how until he cried himself to sleep.

 

* * *

  

In the Fade, Alistair ran.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU DIDN'T REALLY THINK I'D KILL ALISTAIR, DID YOU?
> 
> honestly, i think i'm pretty horrendous at this emotional stuff, but it was necessary for the plot i have planned. i will be GLAD to get back to the banter eventually though.
> 
> chat w me on [tumblr](http://morriganic.tumblr.com/)


	6. six

The weeks following Adamant, Morrigan threw herself into her work. Corypheus would not wait, and – she was wholly unaccustomed to this gnawing feeling of _wrongness_ in her gut, so she did the only logical thing: she ignored it. Alistair had mattered very little to her before this Inquisition and, given time to overcome whatever strange sickness clearly ailed her, she was quite sure he would, once again, cease to matter.

Kieran was another story entirely, of course. The boy was heartbroken, and Morrigan was at an utter loss on how to help. In this, she did the cowardly thing: she fled. She asked all manner of people to keep Kieran occupied; Leliana helped whenever she had a free moment, singing softly and whispering tales of the Blight, of Alistair. The Circle mage with the ridiculous hennin stopped by once, entertaining Kieran with harmless parlor tricks, and the strange creature that was neither spirit nor boy did not seem to want to leave, playing with Kieran amongst the flowers and, irritatingly, voicing Morrigan’s inner thoughts before she’d even had the chance to think them.

The daily visitors seemed to help, so Morrigan fled to the library and stayed there, desperately searching for answers to the questions the Inquisitor was asking. Primarily: what is Corypheus after now? They knew he was moving south, and though Morrigan had theories on what treasures lay in the wilds, without a more concrete direction than ‘south’, it was becoming difficult to pinpoint exactly what Corypheus was seeking.

The Tevinter had, at least, finally realized he was better off leaving her be. Threatening bodily harm had only made him cheerful; threatening to singe off his eyebrows had done the trick.

Morrigan sighed, staring blankly at the pile of books amassed before her. She should have found the answer by now, she was _better_ than this.

“Lady Morrigan, was it?” Morrigan looked up at the elf now at her side. Fiona, she recalled, Grand Enchanter of Montsimmard. Leader of the mage rebellion.

“May I sit?” asked Fiona. Morrigan, wary, nodded. She had nothing against the woman personally – in fact, Morrigan quite respected her. She was strong and would not accept the Templar’s so-called solutions. She fought tooth and nail for her freedom, as well as the freedom of her fellow mages, which Morrigan was less pleased with; if they would not fight for themselves, they hardly deserved the freedom. Still, Fiona was not a woman to be crossed. That much, at least, Morrigan recognized.

“Was there something you required of me?” asked Morrigan, allowing a pregnant pause before adding, as if by afterthought, “Grand Enchanter.”

“There is,” said Fiona, pointedly ignoring Morrigan’s lazy attempts to insult her, “And I… Feel I must apologize in advance.” Morrigan’s brows raised. Fiona appeared entirely uncomfortable with the conversation.

“Was there a chance you were planning to clarify?” asked Morrigan, growing frustrated, “Or should I begin to guess?”

Fiona sighed, pinching her nose between her fingers. “I—I had hoped to speak with you about the Grey Warden… Alistair.”

Before she had even really registered what Fiona had said, Morrigan had slammed the book in front of her shut and stood, chair legs screeching across the ground in protest.

“No,” she said, and though her voice was quiet it boomed in the now silent library. She turned for the stairs but Fiona was up like a shot, blocking Morrigan’s path.

“Please,” said Fiona, “I know it is cruel of me to ask. But I was too much a coward to speak to him before—before—“

“Remove yourself from my path,” seethed Morrigan, “Before I _remove you myself_.” Fiona’s face crumpled, but she did as Morrigan requested, stepping aside. Morrigan took three long strides towards the stairs before Fiona’s small voice froze her in place.

“He was my son,” whispered the elf, “He was my son and I never told him.” Morrigan turned, brows pinching together.

“His mother was a castle maid,” she objected, though she knew immediately Fiona spoke the truth. If there was one look Morrigan had come to easily recognize on anyone’s face, it was that of a mother, thinking of her child.

“A lie,” replied Fiona, “So that should his heritage come to light, none would accuse Maric of… _Dallying_ with an elf.” Fiona twisted her hands. “I have seen you speaking with him, and I know you traveled with the Hero of Ferelden, so I—I wondered if you could tell me about him.”

“We were not close,” replied Morrigan, though she reclaimed her seat at the table, “You would be better off writing a letter to Mahariel.” Fiona tilted her head.

“Whenever he returned to the castle, he went to visit you first, before anything,” she said, and Morrigan began counting her own breaths, “How can you claim you were not close?”

“We were not,” insisted Morrigan, “We antagonized each other. We hated one another.”

“I don’t believe that,” said Fiona, “But if it is easier for you to believe, so be it.”

The two women sat in silence for a while. Fiona seemed eager to ask Morrigan about Alistair, but was at least respecting that Morrigan needed a moment to process this. Alistair’s mother, someone he’d lamented not knowing his entire life, had been in Skyhold this _entire time_? She could have laughed at the cruelty of it. And now it was too late. She hated Fiona a little, right then.

“I am-“ started Fiona.

“An elven mage,” laughed Morrigan humorlessly, “And an ex-Warden.” She shook her head, turning to stare out a window. “So much of Alistair’s personality has suddenly become clear.” Fiona frowned.

“I only want to know what he was like,” she said, “Please.”

“Kieran will be pleased,” muttered Morrigan, not in the mood to humor Fiona, “He’s always had a strange fascination with elves.”

“Kieran?” asked Fiona, confused, “Who is—“

“My son,” clarified Morrigan, standing once more, calmly smoothing her skirt, “Apparently, he is a quarter elven.” She left the library, Fiona gaping behind her.

 

* * *

 

Morrigan spent a week avoiding the library, not unlike a petulant child, she recognized. When finally she slunk back in, determined to uncover Corypheus’ plot, she found that Fiona was perfectly content to let her have her distance. As soon as Morrigan stepped foot in the library, Fiona turned and stalked out.

Well, that was perfectly fine with Morrigan.

Three more days of research before the pieces fell into place. Morrigan could have smacked herself. An Eluvian – of _course_ it was an Eluvian. She had one stashed in her chambers and somehow the answer _still_ had eluded her. She tucked the book under her arm and went to find the Inquisitor. With any luck, they would be able to quickly amass their forces, take what she gathered to be a Temple of Mythal before Corypheus even arrived on the field.

She greatly doubted it, and was already steeling herself for a battle, but the Inquisitor was nothing if not resourceful.

 

* * *

 

 The Well was a surprise. The Inquisitor taking its power for herself – that was a surprise, too, and one that rankled Morrigan. Still, she could not deny a Dalish elf one of her people’s relics, no matter how Morrigan _itched_ to know its power.

It became all too clear, all too soon, that not destroying it (however the very idea pained Morrigan – all that knowledge, how could she have ever destroyed it?) was a mistake of the largest caliber. She narrowed her eyes, taking in the figure crouched in front of her son. The omnipresent green mist that signified the Fade drifted lazily about Flemeth’s form as she turned, meeting Morrigan’s gold eyes with her own.

“Mother,” snarled Morrigan. Beside her, Lavellan gasped.

“ _Mythal_ ,” whispered the elf. Morrigan’s blood ran cold.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god, i'm on a roll.
> 
> fiona wasn't even supposed to be in this chapter (or the story, tbh...) but she forced her way in and turned this chapter into something totally different. just to clarify, i LOVE fiona to death. morrigan, however...
> 
> as always, come chat w me on [tumblr](http://morriganic.tumblr.com)!! my ask box is always open, ESPECIALLY for crying over morristair. or dragon age in general.
> 
> oh, and on the ending: i always have felt it was weird that an inquisitor (particularly a lavellan, who might be more open to the ideas of the well) wouldn't _immediately_ recognize flemeth for who/what she is. so i fixed it.


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